“I hope I’m not intruding, Alice, but I was so captivated hearing Preston, his wife, and Casey talk about Joe Hart, and the way he helped his friends . . . I’d like to come to Braydon to meet you and learn more about Mr. Hart. He must have been an amazing man.”
“I would be happy to have you visit with me, Katherine. When would you like to come?”
“I know this is short notice, but I have a window of opportunity before beginning my new job. Would Tuesday or Wednesday of next week be possible?”
“Possible? Dear, I’d welcome the company. That will be fine. Are you going to fly or drive?”
“I’ll be driving. Besides, I’ll have Hailey, my golden retriever, with me.”
“Oh, how delightful. She’ll have to meet Buck, Joe’s dog—now, my dog.”
“What kind of dog is Buck? How old is he?”
“He’s a German shepherd. A gem, nearly as old as I’m feeling these days.”
“You don’t sound old to me,” Katherine said.
“Oh, bless your heart. You might like to stay at the Live Oak Inn. It’s a lovely old place. If you like, I can talk to the folks over there, get you a discount. And I’ll tell them not to give you any nonsense about Hailey.”
“That would be wonderful, Alice. I think it’s going to be about a fifteen-hour drive. I may get in late and I don’t want to disturb you. Could we meet on Tuesday morning?”
“Sure. You and Hailey can come to my house, visit a while, and then have lunch if you like.” Alice gave Katherine her e-mail address, and they agreed to touch base once she left for Braydon. Katherine was elated at the prospect.
As Katherine worked her way north on Interstate 81 through Pennsylvania and into New York, she was increasingly aware that morning of the changing colors and shading of light, as the rays of the sun rippled through the evergreens, occasionally bouncing off the waters of the creeks, rivers, and lakes along the way. She wanted more, and reset her navigation system, heading west from Binghamton along Route 17 and then north through Horseheads to Watkins Glen.
Katherine’s grandfather followed the development of racing at Watkins Glen, and often talked to her about the old days, his excitement when the Formula One cars came in 1961 for the first Watkins Glen U.S. Grand Prix, a tradition that continued through 1980, the financial difficulties of the track, ending in bankruptcy, and how upset he was when the track was allowed to deteriorate. Adrian Kelly had followed the racecourse’s later rebirth just as eagerly with NASCAR and the Winston Cup Series; today he kept pictures of Jeff Gordon and his Number 24 race car all over his den.
Katherine’s interest increased when the Budweiser at the Glen, which her boyfriend called the Bud, grew to become New York State’s largest motor sports event, and compelled the attention of all the guys in Marion. Katherine would never forget her grandfather taking her to Watkins Glen years ago to watch the races and explore the Glen.
She loved the trip, riding in her grandfather’s pickup truck to the end of Seneca Lake, seeing the track she’d heard so much about, exploring the Glen, and staying at the Seneca Lodge, where her grandpa knew the owners. She could still see the tavern room in her mind: a real nickelodeon, laurel wreaths from the Formula One races that her grandfather talked about hanging behind the bar on arrows shot into the wall by ace archers and those lucky enough to bag a deer when hunting with the owner. She prayed it was still there. She asked her communication system, the number rang, and she heard a pleasant female voice.
“Seneca Lodge, this is Gloria. May I help you?”
“Hi, Gloria. My name is Katherine Kelly. My grandpa, Adrian Kelly, and I stayed at your lodge years ago and really enjoyed it. I’ll be coming through Watkins Glen—probably early afternoon—and wondered if you are open for lunch.”
“Sure, Katherine. I think we can find something for you. We look forward to seeing you.”
Katherine arrived at the lodge just after 2:00 p.m. and met the owners at the reception area to the left of the entrance. Gloria and Jim escorted her through the dining room to meet their son, Brett, who was tending bar. The room was pretty much as she’d remembered, the oak floor, with pegs in the planks, and the wide oak bar with the laurels and arrows. After taking in the whole room, she went straight to the nickelodeon, deposited a nickel, and clapped her hands for joy when the honky-tonk music began to play.
After a delicious and surprisingly inexpensive lunch, Katherine thanked everyone, said good-bye, and once again headed north along the west side of Seneca Lake. She could see and smell the rolling green hills to her left, covered with evergreens, red and silver maple trees, silky dogwood among them, and occasional vineyards, and the sun shining through them all the way to the deep clean waters of the lake to her right.
As Katherine drove through Geneva, passed Hobart and William Smith colleges on her left, and proceeded along the narrow roads and through the small villages of Phelps and Newark on the way to Marion, she contemplated how different her life would have been if she had accepted William Smith College’s offer of an academic scholarship, and if she’d stayed in upstate New York. She pondered the New York City directness and dimensions of Marcia’s question at dinner . . . What was it like growing up in a small upstate village? That thought intensified as she proceeded along Hydesville Road, County Road 220, Mill Road, and into her hometown of fewer than six thousand people, the genesis of so many wonderful childhood memories.
Katherine thought of the changing demographics of America, the country she loved, and the stark contrast between Marion, a rural community, ninety-seven percent white, and the cultural diversity of the city of more than eight million people that she had just left that morning, which she also loved. She turned onto North Main Street, drove past the elementary school on her left, and soon turned right, pulling into the driveway leading to the large white two-story wood frame house with the country porch, a house her great-grandfather had built, where her grandfather lived, where her mother was raised and still came home to, exhausted after taking care of patients at the hospital, where Katherine had grown up. The place she still thought of, and would always think of, as home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Hi, Marcia. It’s Ann. My one-day editor’s conference I told you about finished much earlier than expected, and I have a few hours before I leave for LaGuardia. Have you and P.J. got time for a quick visit?”
The last time she’d seen her college roommate, Marcia had left Preston, discovered she was pregnant, and spent the whole visit unloading on her best friend.
“Absolutely. You have to come over. Can you stay a couple of days?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything.”
“I’m hungry.”
“I’ll feed you. How long before you can get here?”
“I’m in your lobby now,” Ann said. “Talk to the concierge, I’m handing him my cell phone.”
Marcia asked the concierge to send Ann up, and in a minute was at the door waiting for her with a big hug. While Marcia called the Trump Grill and ordered lunch, Ann was busy talking to the airline about changing her return flight to the next day. Soon their lunch arrived. They moved to the stools at the marble countertop, ate lunch, and drank wine, and Marcia listened to Ann’s colorful description of the speakers and interactive exercises at the editor’s conference.
After an hour or so, Marcia could see and hear from the monitor on the counter that P.J. was starting to wake up.
“I’ll introduce you to His Majesty in a moment,” Marcia said. “I’d like to make him presentable first.”
Marcia went into P.J.’s room, cuddled with her son, changed his diaper, and brought him out with considerable fanfare and presented him to Ann, who took him in her arms.
“Look at him. Those eyes. Wow. Marcia.”
“I agree,” Marcia said, taking him back and placing him gently in his bouncer with w
heels. “He’s a bit wobbly, but he’ll be walking soon. We’ve baby proofed the whole condo. Our nanny will be here in half an hour to take him to the park.”
Marcia and Ann sat on the floor and played with P.J. for a while.
“How’s his hearing coming?” Ann asked.
“It’s not. That’s one of the five thousand things I want to talk to you about before Preston comes home. You’ll have to keep extending your flight.”
“Tell me.”
“Remember our phone conversation about the nature of P.J.’s loss, the architecture issue, and the Clarke Schools for Hearing and Speech?”
“Of course.”
“P.J. needs hearing aids. The window is about twelve to fourteen months. Preston loves P.J., but he doesn’t get it. He thinks because P.J. hears certain sounds, everything will work out—that P.J. just needs time for his hearing to develop—and the pediatrician he consulted for a second opinion agrees with him.”
“It’s good that P.J. hears certain sounds, right?” Ann asked.
“Sure. But the audiologist has tested P.J. His loss is moderate at certain frequencies and severe at others. Even though he hears sounds, he’s not hearing all the letters. It’s gibberish. And it’s harmful.” Marcia felt a sense of dark despair, like the sky had suddenly been overtaken with heavy black clouds blocking out all the light. She reached for a box of tissues. “I’m sorry, enough of this.”
“How are you and Preston doing—apart from the hearing stuff?” Ann asked, curling up on the couch, her legs and feet beneath her.
Marcia followed her to the couch. “Do you remember when we talked at your house last year and I told you about my conversation with my dad when my favorite doll broke?”
“Yeah—well, not word for word, but the idea was he could either fix it or get you a new one . . . ”
“That’s right,” Marcia said. “If he fixed it, it wouldn’t be perfect, and if he got me a new one, it wouldn’t be my favorite.”
“And if I remember correctly, you said that’s the way you felt about Preston, that deep down he was a good man, but you couldn’t wait forever for that to surface. You said you’d lose yourself in the process.”
“Right. It’s complicated. Preston’s father was not a good guy. He was always chasing rainbows, waiting for the next big deal—to make up the losses from the last one—and that’s not all he chased. He wasn’t the most attentive father either. Finally Preston’s mother had enough of the squandering and womanizing and divorced him. Preston was just fifteen at the time. He’s always been scared that he, too, would be a failure.”
“I thought his business problems were turning around.”
“It looks that way. I never know, but that’s another problem.”
“I’m missing something,” Ann said.
Marcia got up, walked to the credenza, and poured herself bourbon, neat. She looked at Ann, who shook her head and held up her half-filled wine glass. Marcia looked out the window to the park, sighed, and returned to the couch.
“He has a daughter.”
“What?”
“He recently found out that he’s the father of a twenty-three-year old. Her name is Katherine; she lives in New York. Just finished her graduate studies and is about to begin her career as a reporter.”
They both sat quietly for a few moments, staring at each other. Then Marcia looked down and ran her foot across the soft carpet.
Ann broke the silence. “Has he met her?”
“Yes, we both have. Preston had lunch with her not long ago, and the three of us had dinner together across the street at Armani’s last Thursday.”
“Do you like her?”
“Yes. She’s smart and thoughtful,” Marcia said, feeling comfort in their symmetrical exchanges and her ability to read the analogical codes. “This has been difficult for her, too. She’d been told by her mother that her father was killed in the Air Force before she was born. There was a man killed in the Air Force—her mother’s boyfriend—but, recently, Katherine discovered that he was not her father, and that Preston was,” Marcia said in a soft, distant voice.
“How’s Preston doing with all of this?”
“He loves it. He’s got a new sales campaign.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s got to win her over—going all out.”
“And you’re pissed.”
“I don’t know what I am anymore. Preston didn’t ask for this. He was twenty-three, for God’s sake. He never knew . . . until the girl’s mother called him out of the blue about a month ago. I thought he handled it pretty well for the most part.”
“So you’re not upset?”
“I’d like not to be. Okay, I am upset. But I’m not . . . pissed. I’m okay with his having a daughter, and, in a way, I admire his reaching out to her. She needs a father. And she’s a good kid. My problem is with Preston, his inability to truly understand P.J.’s impairment. Passive-aggressive procrastination. Maybe even embarrassment. He’ll use his newfound daughter as a welcome distraction. I’ve already seen him pulling away from me and P.J., and I hate it.”
“Embarrassment?”
“I’m not sure, but he’s always wanted a son. Now he sees imperfection in the mirror.”
“Sounds like a psychology paper. Does he know you feel that way?”
“I haven’t told him in so many words. He knows I’m upset. And it’s likely to be fueling his fears about my leaving him again. He’s never really gotten over that. And you know what? I may do it. I don’t know.”
“How long has that been going on—your thinking about leaving him?”
“If you’re asking whether I started this after I found out about Katherine, the answer is no. Everything was going well when I was pregnant. Preston was attentive; his business was getting back on track; he was talking with the Collectibles—you know that group of Joe Hart’s friends I told you about—and he seemed headed back to the Preston I fell in love with.”
“That sound like a, Yes.”
“No.”
“Okay, so what was the trigger? P.J.’s hearing?”
“Probably. His lack of response . . . but even before that. It’s a pattern. He didn’t follow through with Joe’s friends. He and I see his commitment to Joe differently.”
At that moment, there was a knock at the door, which opened and a pleasant-looking woman walked in.
“This is Nadine, our nanny. We love her to death. Nadine, this is my dear friend, Ann.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Ann,” Nadine said with a Jamaican accent, smiling at them both and picking up P.J. “How’s my little man today? Are you ready for a stroll in the park?”
They all laughed when P.J. thrust his arms in the air and smiled.
“He responds readily to smiles and laughter,” Marcia explained to Ann. “C’mon, Ann, let’s get you settled in the guest room while P.J. and Nadine go out and get some fresh air.”
* * *
P.J. and Ann were asleep when Preston came home and found Marcia sitting on the couch, staring at the bookcase.
“Ann’s in the guest bedroom, Preston. Her conference ended early and she came over to talk—she’s leaving in the morning.”
“That’s fine. I’m sure you two have had a good time. How’s she doing?”
“Very well. Her newsletter has really taken off.”
“Great.”
Preston looked in on P.J. for a minute and then, back in the living room and seeing Marcia’s glass of wine, poured himself a scotch, and sat down in one of the leather wingback chairs across from the couch.
“Have you had dinner?” Marcia asked.
“Yeah. At the club.”
“We need to talk.”
“We are talking.”
“I’m serious. This can’t wait.”
“What c
an’t wait?”
“Your son.”
“How much wine have you had?”
“Not enough. It’s not the wine. I’m going to have P.J. fitted with hearing aids as soon as the audiologist can do it.”
“We’ve been through this,” Preston said.
“This is important to P.J. and to me. My way can’t hurt him. Your failure to see the need—or your procrastination—can.”
“But P.J. is hearing. You know what my pediatrician says. These are honest differences of viewpoint.”
“I don’t care about honest differences of viewpoint anymore. There’s the big D school of thought, too. Is that what you want?”
“I’m just saying give it a few more months,” Preston asked.
“I’m not doing that, Preston. I’m having him fitted with bilateral aids as soon as possible.”
“I thought we were a team on this,” Preston said.
“Then I’m resigning from the team.”
“What does that mean?”
“You figure it out. I’m going to bed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A large man wearing a plaid shirt under overalls and moving with agility defying his seventy-eight years took the stairs two at a time to meet his granddaughter.
“Hi, Grandpa,” Katherine shouted, throwing her arms around him.
“Hi, Kitten,” Adrian said, hugging her long and hard.
“I’ve missed you so much,” Katherine said. She loved hearing him call her Kitten, the only one who ever did so. Katherine let Hailey out of the SUV to run. Hailey ran to the open backyard and beyond.
Katherine walked with her grandfather around the house to the back porch, talking all the way, and they sat down in a pair of old wooden rockers. She saw Hailey way up on the hill, but one call was all it took to bring the dog running back, flat out toward Katherine’s voice.
“Your mom will be home soon. She’s called three times already. Let me help you with your stuff.”
“Just leave it all there, Grandpa. We’ll get it later.”
The Concealers Page 15